


What do you remember?

by lavidadelosmuertes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavidadelosmuertes/pseuds/lavidadelosmuertes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble about Will's childhood.</p>
<p>All made up, went to a very dark place with it.</p>
<p>TW:  Hint to molestation. Asphyxiation. Graphic descriptions of violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What do you remember?

**[ Ever write a fic that starts out really good and gets just worse and worse as you go?  Yeah this is one of those.  I don't really know where I went with this.  I'm sorry if you are super creeped out, contact me about it, for real I want to know.]**

_What do you remember?_

 

            Tell me, Will… What do you remember?

 

            I remember that the air was cold, but not the sweater and scarf kind of cold; it was the kind of cold that makes you remember the freezer burned flesh of the Donner party, or your grandmother's old wood stove.  This was the kind of cold that marbles fingers with purple and blue, and burns bare toes with every step, the kind of cold that makes a woman’s breast, or a kiss on rosy cheeks seem like home… But home wasn't where I woke up.  Home was warm dogs and the smell of coffee burning in the kitchen.  Home was crisp bed sheets and hot oatmeal.  When I looked through the window here I didn’t see my foggy valley, or dewy flowers, or deadpanning elk, I saw rivers of condensation trickling down concrete faces, and people rushing from here to there without the slightest glance at the dead man in the window.  I smelled vodka and something sort of like rose and then there was a warm breeze on my cheek and moisture against my bare skin and then I saw your face.

           

            Somebody told me that the world isn’t always what we think it is.  That, in order for you to truly understand what is going on around you you have to fabricate some of it.  I think that was you who told me that.  Lately, though, I find myself wondering how much I fabricate on a day-to-day basis.  When you grabbed my hand I was about to strike you.  I wanted to feel your bones crush beneath shredding skin.  I wanted to feel your blood pulse into the empty spaces between dislocated shards of bone and matted flesh.  I wanted to rip you apart, and I was going to.  I was going to start with your stupid face, I’d grab you by the corners of your mouth and tear you open like a bag of  potato chips, and then I’d rip your tongue out.  I’d peel back the skin from your crumbling skull and examine your mandible, pull a few teeth, pluck out your eyeballs.  But I’m not a murderer.  I may be crazy, but I’m not a murderer.

 

            You touched my hand and I knew I wasn’t going to do it.  Not that I had planned to, I just sort of woke up here.  You pushed me face first against the bookshelf and I imagined my nose cracking under the pressure against a copy of _The Interpretation of Dreams._ Clicking tongue against teeth and then pressure against my back, warm hands tightening around my wrists and pushing me to the floor.  I believed it then, that you were going to kill me.  You could have, you know?  I thought you were going to.  I guess you probably still could if you wanted.

 

            I woke up after that in here.  I was wearing somebody else’s clothing.  I smelled like vodka and roses, and you asked me to explain what happened.  You asked me what I remember.  I remember everything, Dr. Lecter.  I remember the stares in my direction, how they paced the room like caged animals.  How I felt with fingers slid down my throat; the salty, bitter taste of living flesh against my tongue, the sharp pain of fingernails writhing around in my esophagus, the dull ache in my chest from inhaling my own blood.  I remember how small I felt, how infinitely small my life felt in the grand scheme of things.  I remember trying to hold back tears from gagging so nobody would think I was scared.  I wasn’t scared, not until you laid me down.  I didn’t expect that.

 

            I didn’t lay you down, Will.

 

            I didn’t say that.  How is this going to help? 

 

            It’s important to discuss traumatic childhood events, Will.  Besides that, your timeline is still a bit confused, I wager.   You are unable to stay on one course of thought even within a conversation.  It’s important to create a timeline, and discussing concrete memories with you will help you to sniff out the fake ones.  Tell me more about the group home.

 

            My father couldn’t handle me.  I was _troubled..._ On top of that my psychiatrist told him that I suffered from _acute psycho-social psychopathy._ He was a real quack if you ask me.  I went in to the group home expecting endless summer camp, swimming and friends and books, like my psychiatrist and my father both told me.  When I got there it was all forced medication and bed restraints and matching white outfits.  I didn’t belong there, either.  They didn’t understand me, and it was easier to lock me away then to try and figure me out.  The other kids were…

 

            Yes, Will?

 

            I just wanted to make friends.  At nighttime I stole sweets from the kitchen and shared them with the other kids.  At first I went barefooted on the cool ceramic tiles in the kitchen, my feet stuck with sweat from nerves, so after that I always stole socks to wear first. The other kids would line up and play cops and robbers every night after lights out, but before we started playing I’d pass out the sweets and us younger kids would hide and eat as much of ours as we could before the bigger kids found us.  I was only eight.  This one time I finished my entire cupcake before the older boys found me, which we weren’t supposed to do.  They were all in there because they were manipulative or violent or loud and their parents had better things to do than listen to them.  The oldest was fourteen.  He was sadistic, psychopathic probably, his parents sent him there when he was seven and he got molested by one of the nurses.

           

            I only loosely understand why he did all of this stuff to me.  I ate all of my sweets before he found me sure, so I was to be punished for being a glutton, but it was to the point of Stockholm syndrome on my part.  He pinned me down and stuck a finger in my mouth, not even all the way to my back teeth and I puked all over.  He helped me clean up my vomit and made me sleep in the bunk above him.  I thought he was going to be my friend…

 

            Will?

 

            So the next night it was the same thing, he pulled me into the bathroom this time and held me down inside the shower room and rammed his fingers down my throat and I puked and we waited until the water washed it all away.  He hugged me when it was all over.  He was kind of like a big brother figure at that point.  He made me sleep in his bed with him that night.  It went on pretty much like that for about a month, until I started dropping weight and losing my gag reflex.  That’s when he did all the other stuff.

 

            Would you like to talk about it?

 

            Maybe next time.


End file.
